


A Lying Sort of Summer

by MarnaNightingale, Skud



Series: All the King's Men [8]
Category: Hornblower
Genre: Multi, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-12
Updated: 2005-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-02 08:10:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarnaNightingale/pseuds/MarnaNightingale, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skud/pseuds/Skud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Not, actually, by me and Skud, just by me. We were playing about with the capacities of the uploader to handle coauthors and oddity.</p>
    </blockquote>





	A Lying Sort of Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Not, actually, by me and Skud, just by me. We were playing about with the capacities of the uploader to handle coauthors and oddity.

**August 1799**

> "... as blossoms on a bough,  
> From love's awakened root do bud out now."

Dear Miss Cobham,

It appears that I shall be in London next week, and as I see you shall be at the Drury, I mean to give myself the treat of seeing you in Primrose and Violet once more. If I were to come either Thursday or Friday would you permit me to take you to supper? Our last meeting, delightful as it was, was all too short, and gave us no opportunity to speak properly.

Affectionately,

Edrington.

* * *

My Lord,

I thought I had made myself excessively clear on this point -- my name is Kitty, at least to my friends, and that I hope you are and shall always be. If you think you can contrive to remember it, you may present yourself -- and your apologies -- on Friday.

Your Lordship's humble servant,

Kitty.

* * *

My Dear Kitty,

I am well re-paid in my own coin, and you see before you a man suitably chastened -- to demonstrate my remorse shall I come instead on Saturday, when I may offer you not only supper but an evening at Vauxhall as well?

I offer in extenuation of my sins only this -- it was not Kitty I was most used to call you.

Repentantly,

Alexander.

* * *

Alexander --

Kindly understand that I will not be toyed with -- if you are suffering from an unaccountable urge to eat over-salted ham and drink warm champagne, you needed only to say so at once, and I should happily have accommodated you.

You may come on Saturday, wretch.

K.

* * *

You are as clever as you are beautiful, Lady -- and as merciless as you are clever.

Until Saturday,

A.

* * *

**Vauxhall, August 1799**

> It doth endure Vicissitude, and season, as the grass ...

A single evening at Vauxhall left one with the overwhelming impression of endless motion, endless novelty, new wonders at every bend in the paths. Strange, then, to come back after all this time and feel that nothing had changed. The colours seemed as gaudy as ever, the crowds as gay -- even the ducks about their feet, importunate and reproachful, might have been the very ducks he had fed as an Ensign, the loaf he had absently kept from dinner the same loaf -- _certainly they would have me believe that no-one has spared them a crust since_.

The paintings which enlivened the rotunda were perhaps a fraction more faded when one came to examine them closely, but from any distance at all, they too were the same as always. A telling portrait of the English mind, Edrington thought; scenes from the stage and depictions of great sea-battles slapped up cheek by jowl with busts of geniuses musical and military in turn, until one might justly be puzzled to tell truth from fancy, spectacle from triumph. And in among them -- he paused, and found himself staring.

"Alexander?"

Edrington came back to himself with a start. "Forgive me. I was -- what an odd thing to find here. Was it here before?"

"I don't recall it." Kitty looked more closely at the painting. "'The Surrender of Montreal' -- it's well done."

"Yes." He glanced at her; there was no trace of polite attention there; she seemed as truly caught by the scene as he. "Though I confess I have come to think war a subject ill-suited to canvas. War on land, at any rate; I say nothing of these sea-battles; I daresay they are done well enough. Or --" he leaned in to examine the curve of the city wall -- "perhaps it is only that I am weary of being polite about the damned things. I am forever being towed into drawing rooms to admire some artist's display of toy soldiers. Scarcely any blood, no mud ..."

_Dying heros laid out like so many pious deathbed scenes -- not choking their lives away on their own blood. No grown men screaming for their mothers while their guts spill away between their hands and there is no one to wet their lips or even speak a word to them and their own comrades run over them, through them, while they yet live. You look down at your boots at the end of the day and only then do you even remember ... _

Kitty looked at him gravely, waiting, and he recalled himself abruptly.

"I -- suppose it is the best they can do." He made a rueful face. "A real battle, true courage, drawn faithfully -- it wouldn't suit a drawing-room."

Kitty nodded. "I can only imagine what it might do to the price of a Captaincy in the Guards."

He glanced at her, astonished at the edge in her tone, and she dropped her eyes. "Will you listen to me? I sound quite as if I'd never had my head turned by a scarlet coat."

Nothing loath to speak of lighter matters, he nodded and accepted the change of topic gratefully. "And hear me go on as if I'd never had the benefit of one, or taken every ounce of advantage of it I could. Or --" he grinned, remembering -- "been stunned speechless by that green thing you had, all frogged and braided ..."

"_That_ was for your benefit, sir, every scrap of it, right down to the colour of the lace; I got it to celebrate your commission. Made me look a proper soldier's woman, I thought." She smiled over the memory and leaned into his arm as he snorted.

"Pity I wasn't a proper soldier -- vain little coxcomb of a tailor's dummy, all flash and show, though I never felt it with _you_. But you -- you shone them all down; I felt the knives in my back for weeks after --" He looked her over a fraction too warmly for strict propriety, pitching his voice low --"as I shall after tonight -- your dressmakers are among the cruelest women in all of England, I am quite certain of it, to help you torment me so."

"Spanish coin, sir!" She dimpled at him nonetheless. "You were no such thing. Only proud of a pair of colours, as it was entirely right you should be, and --" another small, reminiscent smile -- "altogether too handsome for your own good. Or anyone else's -- not all those edged looks were -- or are -- to your address, you know. Yes, you ought to blush, Alexander -- oh, _blast_ these ducks!"

They were crowding back again, jostling for position, every one of them plaintively begging for the bread he no longer had to give, and as he stooped to scatter them he saw her glance from the upturned beaks at her feet to the upturned faces of the painting, and shooed them more gently. "These people have faces," Kitty said after another moment, quietly. "That soldier --"

"And the women. You can almost hear them ..." He smiled and tucked her arm more firmly under his as she shivered. "I'm sorry. Not a topic for a pleasant summer evening." _Any other woman would reach for her vinaigrette if I said half as much to her._ He began to turn away from the painting, but she stopped him.

"It was summer in Florence. We -- we wished it were not, after a few days; that is one bit of realism I think I am just as pleased to be spared. I never knew fear had a smell, before, and then the stench of death, and ... I almost missed the reek of gunpowder, after a while. " She shook herself, and smiled wanly as he stared.

"You were in Italy?"

"In ninety-six. _That_ was a crowded month -- I began it by charming, bribing, and finally bloody well lying my way out of Florence and ended it in Gibraltar without sixpence to bless myself with, using a false name -- my third that year, as long as I am confessing my many sins!" She laughed, clearly unrepentant and continued, "and with an entirely new and even more heartfelt appreciation of British uniforms. Do you know, all those bright colours are really quite useful, quite aside from whatever aid they might give a man in the petticoat line?" He snickered despite himself -- when had she had occasion to have to make that sort of rapid distinction? "Gibraltar -- that was where Sir Edward came into it -- and then Lieutenant Hornblower and Mr Kennedy, though he was rather later -- those poor men! I ran them all around quite shamelessly, did he tell you?"

"Mr Kennedy told me a -- I was going to say, a few rather highly-coloured tales -- but now I begin to wonder if he was actually coddling what he took to be my tender nerves. It all sounds fascinating. If that is the word I mean. You were claiming to be who?"

"The Duchess of Wharfedale."

"I am already quite petrified. A veritable dragon of a woman, if I recall correctly; makes Nell Gwynn seem a positive paragon of respectability, has a voice that could shatter glass -- and eats young men for breakfast."

"And whoever is left for dinner, yes. I trust she never got her teeth into you?"

"No more than a tooth, thank God. I owned myself routed horse and foot in a minute, bolted incontinently and hid behind Mama for the remainder of the evening." He shuddered elaborately, making her laugh. "Fortunately, Her Ladyship had apparently been fed that day."

"_That_ part of the role was vastly amusing; I was glad ducking stools were quite out of fashion, several times."

She expanded as they strolled on, glancing up periodically to enjoy Edrington's reactions. He felt quite certain she found enough to amuse her there; as she talked he found himself alternately enthralled -- Dear God, how he would have enjoyed watching Mr Hornblower cope with the Duchess -- and horrified. Even her carefully offhand account of the shipwreck -- "I quite commend the experience, Alexander; only be shipwrecked once and one is never seasick again, after!" -- added to what he had gleaned from Kennedy, was enough to make it plain that they had all been unnaturally fortunate to survive, let alone to be found by the _Indefatigable_. It was distracting, too, simply watching her as she spoke; women in her profession, he had found, tended to become hard -- or, if fortune was kind to them, soft. She had done neither; nor had she clung grimly to youth with powder and paint and missish fashions, but if there were a few lines about her eyes, neither the smile that had left them there nor the eyes themselves had changed, and he was forced to own that he felt more jealous of Mr Hornblower at this instant than was quite decent.

He wondered at her passing so lightly over her time at El Ferrol, but his tentative questions were met with only smiling half-answers, and he forebore to press her further. Even with that notable omission, they had traversed almost the length of the gardens before she finally brought her tale to a close. "You cannot imagine how relieved I was to get the bloody dispatches out of my skirts and hand them over at last."

"Good God, Kitty." Edrington stared at her, half-appalled and wholly admiring; she snorted at him.

"Oh, save your sympathy, do. It was the part of a lifetime, really; astonishing how invigorating it can be to play with more at stake than a favourable notice." Edrington shook his head, bemused. _Forced to flee from Italy, stranded in Gibraltar, captured by the Spanish, wrecked upon the rocks, the fate of England tucked into her skirts, and every minute of it sailing under false colours -- positively courting execution as a spy, and she stands there demure as a nun and calls it 'invigorating'. And I find it entirely enchanting; I think I must have gone mad._

She squeezed his arm reassuringly and laughed. "Truly, Alexander, it was not so bad. Nothing like ... I had not the hardships to face that they had, not nearly so. Only a little bit of adventure to remember when I am old. And once aboard the _Indefatigable_, it was all quite safe and easy, aside from the minor detail of being completely without a rag of my own to cover myself with. I seem to have spent the entire voyage back to England with Sir Edward's officers falling over themselves to apologise for mistaking me for an especially clumsy mid from the back."

_ ... a hoyden in clinging breeches and shining boots, ridiculous heavy doublet tossed carelessly aside as she lounged in her chair and methodically cleared the last traces of makeup away, sweat-soaked shirt clinging to every line of her as she grinned up at him, demanding to know how he'd found the performance..._ Edrington snorted. "You always did like the breeches parts. Did them quite -- brilliantly, too; I doubt you were clumsy in the least." He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry I missed it."

"You missed less than you think." She grinned. "I suspect Lieutenant Bracegirdle of a high-minded streak -- I am quite certain he procured me the loosest pair possible. Between that and a mid's coat only slightly too narrow for your Mr Kennedy, and probably of an age with him -- how does he go on, by the way? -- I was a perfect tatterdemalion. I kept to my cabin as much as I could bear to do."

"_Not_ my Mr Kennedy; his own Mr Kennedy, very much so. Well enough, I gather -- I had a letter not long since." _A note, at any rate._ "Finding channel duty tedious, he says; one would expect him to welcome a few months of comparative quiet, but it seems not -- so, you were obliged to steal his coat, were you? I can well imagine how it would have hung on you. Just as well, perhaps; I'm quite certain you created quite enough stir as you were ... "

* * *

**Drury Lane Theatre, June 1789**

> How many gazers mightst thou lead away ...

"... receipts are down, and we have to eat. So" -- she shrugged as she swiped at a last streak of grease on her face -- "Rosalind first and a farce full of clowns and whiskered jests after, and once more into the breeches for me."

So casual, as if it were as innocent a ploy as adding a comic turn, or a -- a damned shipwreck! _She does not even trouble to pretend to me that the damned play was anything but a pretext._ "It seems to have served its purpose most admirably -- it is certain that _I_ saw little but you; the whole audience seemed to me unable to attend to much else." He heard the edge in his voice and tried to cover it with a thin smile.

He might, perhaps, dare to say _his Kitty_ in the quiet of his thoughts, but nowhere else, and where it came to interfering in her on-stage -- or off-stage -- affairs -- _that_ he had learned better already than to try -- and he was was in no mood to risk another such set-down, not with his pride stung and raw already._ But Christ, they stared at you so... _

She was watching him, narrow-eyed and a little wary. "Good, then," she said briskly, diving back into the towel in her hands, and he stared at the line of her back and seethed.

He'd blushed for his own thoughts -- she was captivating as ever, but not in the least as she was used to captivate him. Booted and breeched she was the stuff not of wide-eyed dreams but of lewd fancies, and even as he had smouldered at every murmur from the stalls around him, imagining what they might be saying, what they must be thinking of -- God! how dared they -- how dared _she_? -- his eyes had followed the length of her legs and the curve of her arse and the line of her back over and over until he thought his face must surely match his coat and make plain his every passing thought to the most fleeting glance. He'd sat rigid in his seat and gritted his teeth as she flaunted herself and the crowd slavered over her like a pack of hounds until he thought of stalking out, even -- for a moment -- of dragging her from the stage and -- _and what?_ ... no, there was nothing, no decent way of escape.

The air outside had cooled him, and a chance meeting with a friend from Eton near the steps had seemed to promise welcome distraction -- until the conversation had turned to the performance, and to Jack's -- glowing -- appreciation of it. Jack's half-envious, half-disappointed looks when Edrington declined to join him for an evening's gaming, made him feel more a fraud with every look, every word, and yet -- they were at school no longer; need Jack still make his every thought so blasted plain?

Even at the risk of further, more pointed insinuations, only his distaste for finding himself one of a throng of gaping, jostling admirers had kept him from excusing himself directly and making his way to the stage door. He'd turned the conversation instead, talking determinedly of a grey hunter at Tattersall's, biding his time, allowing her ample chance to send the last starry-eyed boy -- or moist-eyed roué, he thought grimly -- on his way before he could make some excuse and slip away to her. He'd breathed easier then, soothed by the thought that surely she would have had the decency to receive her admirers in her skirts -- _she will be only Kitty once more, and this all a wicked dream_ \-- only to be brought up short at the door of her dressing room.

And now she looked at him as if she had done nothing, as if she expected him to, to ... _to stop acting like a spoilt child with a puppy, crying because he is nipped for dragging it hither and yon like a toy?_

He dropped his eyes as she turned to stand, and held his hand out in placation; she came into his arms, resting her head against his collar so that he could bury his face in her hair, and even as he whispered a half-apology she said gently, "A hazard of the profession, Alexander. They see me as I am when I play a part, and think they see me. Nothing will change it; it makes me weary, sometimes, but in the end, only that."

* * *

**Vauxhall, August 1799**

> But mix'd of all stuffs, vexing soul, or sense ...

"_Not_ the best sort of stir, not aboard ship. And not on the streets of Plymouth, either. Had I not had Lady Pellew to give me countenance -- and the loan of a gown -- when we landed, I should have been in a bad way, but she was all that was generous and obliging."

Edrington, jolted back to the present, straightened hurriedly. _That_ \-- was a topic he'd prefer to let well alone. "I'd expect no less; she has always seemed -- very kind." He'd wondered, once, if she -- or any woman -- could possibly be so serenely complaisant, or whether it was a kind of revenge, that kindness tinged with something that was not quite pity; a woman's weapon, and it had never failed to make him feel like a naughty child. Now he thought perhaps it was simply that he hadn't mattered very much to her at all; there had been a predecessor, and there would be a replacement. He was only a single face among many, and her quarrel -- were she inclined to quarrel -- was elsewhere.

"You know her? Of course -- I had forgotten that she knew your mother."

A bow drawn at a venture? "We have been introduced once or twice. I doubt she would remember," he said, carefully disinterested.

"She does, actually. Said you'd a decided air of your Great-Uncle Julian about you."

Edrington looked sharply at her, but her expression was as neutral as her voice; he pitched his own to match. "Wicked Uncle Julian? I have a look of him, that much is true. I never quite know what I am meant to think when anyone remarks on it, though."

"She never said wicked! She said he was -- what was it -- exceptionally charming."

Edrington nodded. "He was that; I remember him." _And clever, and amazingly kind and patient when it suited him -- and profligate, promiscuous, indiscreet, and so notorious that even when he was over seventy matrons refused to allow their daughters to be introduced to him. Julian used to mourn having the name to live down, poor stick, and rage at me whenever anyone remarked the family resemblance_. He cast about for a diversion, settling hastily on a colourfully-clad if uninspired troupe of tumblers and tugging her gently to a better vantage point, watching her from the corner of his eye as she considered the spectacle judiciously. Something in the set of her mouth said she was not to be so easily distracted; he groaned inwardly and resigned himself to an uncomfortable bout of fencing; clearly Lady Pellew had, at least, made her wonder. At worst -- he could scarcely stand to imagine the conversations they might have if they chose. _Thank your lucky stars you are not as fascinating a topic as you like to think yourself and keep your mouth well shut._.

"I liked her very well." Kitty smiled. "And yes, she is invariably kind, at least to any stray player, protege, or gangly young officer that Sir Edward chances to -- take an interest in. He was fortunate in his marriage, more so than many a Navy man seems to be."

"Yes." His tongue felt clumsy, as if it were thick with drink. "How -- you found her well, I hope."

"Quite well," Kitty said, seeming all of a sudden to lose interest in the matter in favour of admiring a vast rose-bed. "Unusual shade of yellow; don't they set off the cream ones nicely?"

_Can she really have no notion after all? -- no, I do believe I hear the sound of women closing ranks, damn them. Not that I have any right to complain ... Christ, what a young idiot I was!_ He sighed -- all very well to develop scruples now, too late to benefit any of them. _Too late to spoil your fun..._

They stood silent for awhile, until she relented, and said gently, "She seems happy, Alexander. And going to be happier yet -- I understand she is expecting another child soon."

"I'm -- glad. Very."

She nodded, and smiled up at him, her tone teasing again. "She's a better memory for a face than her husband does. _He_ had quite forgotten _me_ \-- at least, he may have made the connection by Plymouth, but at Gibraltar I believe he was as fooled as any of them. To be fair, it _had_ been the better part of ten years. And I rather think his mind was -- elsewhere."

* * *

**Vauxhall Gardens, May, 1789.**

> How many lambs might the stern wolf betray...

_Censorious, ponderous old windbag._ Kitty wrinkled her nose as she passed Milton's stern, stone profile; serve him right to have ended up on the path to the privies, forever looking down on a stream of revellers as they made their often unsteady way to and fro. She rounded the flower-bed near the supper-boxes and stopped short; Alexander had been joined in their box by a dark-haired man, lean and slightly battered, wearing the epaulets of a Post-Captain. She looked him over closely -- stiff, unyielding -- _not a man to approve of actresses who dally with beautiful young men._ She lingered in the shadows, enjoying the warm breeze and biding her time, sighing inwardly as she saw him slip into her chair and accept a glass of punch; he leaned across the table to make some point as Alexander slid back into the seat opposite.

She watched the two men idly; it was seldom enough she had the chance to look at Alexander undistracted, seldomer yet from the back and unobserved -- her eyes rested pleasurably on the set of his shoulders and the shape of his head where it joined his neck, revealed above the high collar of his jacket when he ducked his head. The older man was speaking, telling some story that had Alexander spellbound, leaning forward to catch every word. She smiled to herself -- judging from the indulgent look turned on him he was being entertained with some tale of heroism, and his face must be positively alight with it.

Who was this? Some chance-met acquaintance from his club, some old friend of the family? A distant relative taking a fatherly interest? Alexander leaned forward to refill their glasses, his hand brushing over the older man's wrist in the doing; he jumped back and Kitty saw the look that flashed over the stern face. Her eyes narrowed. _Not_ fatherly, nor anything of the sort. _Time I rejoined the party, I rather think._

They stood as she joined them, Alexander almost leaping from his chair to greet her. _So easy to forget how young he is still, and then one is reminded all in an instant ... more cub than wolf, yet._ She smiled back at him and raised an enquiring eyebrow as he captured her hand and drew her firmly to his side.

"Kitty -- Miss Cobham, I -- this is Sir Edward Pellew. Ah -- Captain Pellew. Of the _Winchelsea_." He paused, and she saw him swallow. "Sir Edward -- Miss Katherine Cobham -- she was a most brilliant Cleopatra at the Portman Market Theatre last month, and Desdemona before that at the Drury --" He stopped short at Pellew's amused look, and Kitty bit her lip. _He will begin quoting my best notices and regaling us with especially notable segments of the _Gazette_, next, if he's not stopped..._ She cast about hastily for some remark, but Sir Edward blessedly intervened.

"Miss Cobham." He bowed, and she nodded, looking him over closely. "I believe I have heard the Drury performance spoken of with great admiration." She smiled her thanks and he continued, "Did you chance to see the the pantomime earlier? Not at all what you are used to, I know, but I thought it a touch above the ordinary."

She answered absently, diverted by Alexander's agitation; he positively vibrated, seeming loath to leave go her arm or stray from her side, yet his eyes were forever turning back towards Pellew, watching him intently as they spoke. Pellew seemed -- or chose -- not to notice, but only sipped his punch and admired the warmth of the evening and quizzed Alexander gently over his enthusiasm for fireworks. _All quite proper, if one ignores how they look at each other._ She wrenched her attention back to the conversation in time to hear Alexander laugh deprecatingly and say "Well, sir, I daresay they must seem awfully tame to _you_, after all the actions you have seen, but I confess, I still do think them pretty."

Pellew grinned, and seemed to relax a fraction. "With such pleasing company I daresay I should find fireworks quite exciting enough myself. And I should not keep you further, if you are not to miss the start." He set his cup down and made to excuse himself, but as he turned to go Alexander placed a hand on his arm, drawing him back for a brief, final word -- pitched too low for Kitty to catch -- and smiled up into his face before turning back to her.

"If we go down now, we shall have a good spot."

They set out along the paths, Kitty half-lost in thought, Alexander scarce seeming to notice her abstraction as he chattered away, flitting between trivialities until she stared at him in frank astonishment and he fell silent, biting his lip in chagrin. He seemed more composed by the time they joined the thong of revelers clustered near the field in which the display was set, but there was a tension in his jaw that betrayed him.

Alexander's prediction had been correct; when the bell went they were comfortably ensconced by a spreading young willow, assured of both an excellent view and a modicum of privacy. Ordinarily Alexander was quick to take advantage of the least opportunity -- even such partial concealment as this would serve -- to pull her into his arms, but tonight he was almost diffident, tense and silent at her side, gazing into the sky as if the fireworks might not appear if his attention wavered. She puzzled at it as the music swelled -- _was_ he embarrassed, after all, to have been forced to introduce her to Captain Pellew? But he had not seemed so -- he had shown only pride, not even the Quixotic defiance he had in the past displayed when they met by chance with some acquaintance who he feared might fail to value her as he thought proper -- and surely there could be no reason for him to be ashamed of Sir Edward! She shook her head impatiently; whatever was blue-devilling him, there would be time to get it out of him later. For now ... he had yet to as much as glance her way since Pellew's departure from the box. _I fail to see why I ought to have _my_ evening spoilt..._

She took advantage of a light breeze to shiver elaborately and move close to him; he started, but tucked her under his arm willingly enough and bent his head as she traced a gentle hand down his face, dropping a soft kiss on her palm -- _better_ \-- and she let her hand trail further to stroke over his jaw. He swallowed suddenly and his eyes grew wide; wider still as she leaned close to toy with the soft hairs at his nape that had so fascinated her earlier. He groaned; a choked, almost pained sound, bitten back almost at once, but he bowed his head to give her free rein and she took full advantage, startled but pleased at his sudden shift in mood. The skin of his neck was cool and smooth under her fingers, like silk, and she dipped beneath his collar, tracing the bumps of his spine, petting and exploring. He gasped suddenly when her fingers found his ear, catching her hand in his own, pressing it almost painfully to the front of his coat, and seemingly made as if to speak, or to kiss her, but stopped, biting his lip. He stood breathing hard, his hot cheek pressed to hers, and she smiled into the darkness.

"Alexander?" His heart pounded under her hand.

'I -- ah -- damn! _Kitty ..._"

"Do you think you could bear to miss the remainder of the display?"

* * *

**Vauxhall, August 1799**

> Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.

Edrington snickered, even as he flushed slightly. "I thought you would have quite forgotten that; it was the most casual of meetings, after all."

She looked at him wide-eyed. "Was it?"

"Wretch! I tried my best to make you think so." He nodded at the crowds streaming down the path ahead of them. "Which reminds me -- shall we see the fireworks, for the sake of old times?"

She smiled, and let him lead her towards the field. "Why not?"

As they disposed themselves in a good location -- in the open part of the field -- she said, thoughtfully, "I did wonder if Sir Edward's intentions -- if I ought to warn you about him."

He looked at her curiously. "How were you proposing to go about it?"

"I had not the least notion, actually," she confessed, and he laughed.

"I'd have dreamed up some cork-brained tale meant to spare your delicate sensibilities -- by which I would have meant, my own -- and stuck to it through thick and thin, no doubt."

She nodded, grinning. "Later, I thought perhaps I ought to warn _him_, but as that was even more impossible, I concluded that he could very well look out for himself."

"On the whole, yes. At least -- well." He cleared his throat.

"But I wondered. And then -- Rosalind."

He stared at her, wide eyed. "Kitty! Do you mean to tell me --!"

She only blinked up at him, the little cat, and turned away, settling herself firmly in front of him, leaning back comfortably against his coat, and said lightly, "I thought you were watching the fireworks, Alexander?"

* * *

**Drury Lane, June 1789**

> Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness ...

"Well, sir? Do I make a passable boy?"

_Rather more than passable._ He swallowed, utterly at a loss as she peeped up at him, mischief in every line of her face. Temporised -- "You are beautiful, Lady, in any guise." He made to kiss her again; gasped as she pulled away to laugh up at him and the motion brought her against his groin.

"That is no answer at all, but only flattery, and you know it." She squirmed again, deliberately, grinning at his confusion, and his voice shook even as he said lightly, "What, would you steal my coat and go for a soldier?"

"Leave the coat and take the soldier, rather," she said, her fingers busy already at the fastenings, shaking his hands off gently, dodging his descending lips to fasten her mouth instead on his jaw as she stripped away his jacket and began on his sash, fumbling slightly with the knot before it, too, fell away and she began on the buttons of his waistcoat.

He pulled away, catching her chin in his hand to turn her face up for a kiss; started as she pressed back into him and slid her tongue between his lips before he could recapture the initiative and found himself against the wall of the tiny room. _Oh God,_ she was fumbling at his shirt and he flinched as she tugged at it and helped her even as he thought to protest. It pulled free, and her hands found his waistband; he shivered at the cool touch of her fingers, and his fingers dug into her waist.

"As bold as any boy, at least," he murmured as her lips trailed downward to his throat; he made to pull her close once more, but her hands were between them, tracing over his sides, and after a single, indecisive tug he only held her loosely, briefly quiescent as she edged his shirt higher, until her exertions obliged him to lift his arms for her. She had missed the sleeve-buttons, and his hands would not come free of the cuffs; he was tangled in the linen, head spinning, as she pressed her lips below his collarbone, then released her grasp on the hem to press her advantage further, her hands busy again at the waist of his breeches. He shivered under her nails, tracing his belly as her lips trailed lazily lower; gave up any notion of saving the shirt and fought his head free, hearing a seam split as the buttons gave way.

More buttons than those, he realised, as her hands dipped lower yet; his head fell back with a thump into the tangle his arms had made in the cloth of his shirt and he groaned. "Kitty, I ..." What was she about, with this that he had never asked of her, had never considered in the light of her, even? Whores did such things, and mistresses might, and young men playing in corners, that he knew -- and _that_ was a dangerous memory now, with her breeched leg insinuating itself between his and her body hot against him through the thin shirt. Kitty was none of those -- Kitty who he'd seen play Desdemona, as pure in truth as she was painted scarlet in rumour, belonged to a different world entirely and she could never wish to do this, should not even know these things. _She_ could not be painting lines of fire across his chest with her lips and sliding her fingers deeper into his breeches, pushing them aside, eyes flashing to his face and vanishing again beneath long lashes as she slid along the length of him and oh, Christ, she was on her knees and that could never be right, that she should go to her knees before him, that he should look down to see her there and be transfixed by a straight back and a queue and a booted length of leg, but her tongue traced his rib and flickered over his side and her lips were against the curve of his belly and it made him shake that they trailed lower even as he tried to catch his breath and yet he could not, could _not_ let her and he said again, high and breathless, "_Kitty,_" and made to pull away from her, still snarled in the damned shirt and as he struggled she laughed and looked him full in the face, all mischief and delight and his breath caught in his throat.

_They see me play a part, and think they see me_.

It seemed that after all she _could_ want to do this, could be determined to do this, even, and not only for him, and that needed some thinking on, but not now, not when her breath huffed warm over him and when had he ever refused her when she was set upon a thing and how should he begin now when -- _Dear God_ \-- the tip of her tongue was upon him, tentative and flickering and sending fire through him nonetheless, and he swore under his breath, unable to tell if he was warning her away or urging her on and she giggled as if she were breathless with her own daring and closed her mouth about him softly, carefully, and he shook and he felt the shirt give and tear further against his arms as he said again "Kitty, oh, God, Kitty, I -- "

He slumped against the wall, wordless, and let her have her way, let her trail lips and tongue and fingers over him as she would, learning him, murmuring with pleasure at the way she made him leap and shiver and bite his lip and sigh; he opened his eyes to see her there and almost found it in his heart to forgive even the crudest of the men who had seen her and gone home to chill and empty beds for the wistful muttering and imaginings that had fallen from their lips, even had they thought of this, for he had thought of it too and it was happening and even as he struggled still to understand it she wrapped her hand about him and her mouth grew bolder and he watched and felt his knees give way and his belly clench and thought to warn her somehow but words escaped him and he only closed his eyes and gasped and shook and spent helplessly as she pulled half-away in astonishment but her hand was moving on him still, strong and sure and only when it stilled did he dare to open his eyes -- _Dear God_ her face and her shirt and her _hair_.

He could not meet her eyes, could only sink to his knees before her and try to hide his flaming face in her shoulder and struggle ineffectually while she freed him from the prison of his ruined linen to let him wipe at the mess with a trembling hand until she took the shirt from his hands and tossed it aside as she launched herself into his arms, giggling as he started at the cool dampness and squirming into him until they were equally smeared and he began, reluctantly at first, to smile with her, and then to laugh, even as he searched for words.

She lifted her head, grinning at him. "I'll get better at it. I promise."

"You -- Dear _God_." And they were off again, giggling helplessly.

His face sobered, and he sighed. "Kitty ... I -- Kitty, _why_ do you stand for my idiotish behaviour?"

She looked into his face then, and smiled. "I don't, always. And I think you know why, my dear." When she smiled at him so, he did know it, knew it as well as he knew anything, and when she turned her face up to him and his hands found her hair and pulled it loose of its confining ribbon to tumble around them and she cradled his head with her hand in the old way he sighed and kissed her lips, her cheek, her jaw, until she demanded against his ear, "But you still don't answer me, Alexander -- what sort of boy do I make?"

He was readier for her now, though he ducked his head all the same. "I -- I hardly know how to answer. I -- ah... Kitty!" He twisted as she assailed him, finding the most vulnerable place over his ribs and tickling him as she laughed in his face, grateful for the distraction, for the excuse to take hold of her and lift her away and bear her down to the floor to grin up at him, unquelled. "Woman, boy, or Puck, you are impudent, imperious, and --" he settled himself over her and snatched a brief kiss -- "altogether impossible to resist. And if you _will_ play Mischief ..."

* * *

 

**Vauxhall Gardens, August, 1799**

> Those like so many spheres but one heaven make ...

As the last flare died away in a shower of golden sparks he said into her ear, half-provoking, half-provoked, "Were you only -- making a point, Kitty? Was that all?"

"No! Alexander, don't be a goose!" Ah, she was laughing up at him, and everything was all right. "A little curiosity, maybe. And perhaps I wanted you to see that I was not made of glass --" he snorted gently, contriving to bury his face deeper in her neck as he nodded -- "but you know very well why I did it!"

He dropped a quick, teasing kiss on her neck before releasing her regretfully, judging that even here they would shortly attract notice. "Do I?"

"Well, why do _you_ do it?"

"I -- ahh -- you -- " _because I -- because _ \-- he did not in the least know what to make of _that_, still less what to say to it, to say to her -- she was looking up at him quite calmly, as if she expected him to _answer_ her and he could only sputter "Kitty, you -- !" and that made her laugh again and prudently take herself out of reach, before he could -- what _had_ he been about to do? -- leaving him to catch her up and give her his arm and pretend to a nonchalance he felt not in the least as he led her back towards the lights and noise of the main buildings, thinking fondly of a drink to cool his face and soothe his nerves.

They fetched up on a bench near the orchestra, sipping gratefully at champagne and watching the dancers -- though Edrington was rather too preoccupied with his own thoughts to give them more than desultory attention -- until she made a surprised sound, and said "Is that a waltz? It is -- I don't recall that I have ever seen a waltz in England before."

He caught the wistful tone in her voice and stood. "Not a chance to be wasted, then," and at her startled look he took her almost-empty glass from her hand and pulled her to her feet.

They were both laughing as they joined the other dancers, and he was pleased to find that he had not, after all, forgotten his lessons. _Marie, laughing and barefoot, holding up the hem of his appropriated dressing-gown as if it were a train, singing the tune under her breath as they whirled about the tiny room until they were breathless and dizzy ..._

This was _not_ clearing his head, nor was the reality of Kitty, warm in his arms, a little flushed with exertion -- _ she still smells of roses_ \-- and he recalled helping her rinse her hair with rosewater long ago, brushing her hair dry for her, patiently drawing the comb through until it curled and crackled about his hands and he was enveloped in the scent. She had made a game of stealing his shirts, but as long as it meant she would sit by the fire with long bare legs curled under her and let him brush her hair, he had never complained very seriously.

Distracted, he missed a step and almost trod on her toe. He recovered hastily and smiled apologetically down at her; she raised her eyebrows curiously, but made no remark. "I was thinking of shirts," he said, and she laughed.

* * *

**Drury Lane, June 1789**

> Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport ...

Her shirt was sticky and cold on his skin; he began to strip it away, making a great point of undoing the ties at her wrists before pushing it over her head and pressing her back against the smooth boards. She shivered at the chill on her back and held out her arms, but he only looked down at her, smiling slightly, and traced teasing fingertips across her breasts to watch them tighten further, bending to chase them with his lips, shaking his head slightly as she tugged at him. She tugged again, imperatively, fingers curled over his shoulders, and he nipped sharply below her collarbone, then was astonished at himself and made to apologise, but she only gasped and let her hands fall away. _Oh._

His hands ranged more boldly now, coming to rest at her hips, holding her beneath him as he knelt between her legs and explored at his leisure, delighted and wondering that she should respond so to him; he recalled the havoc her tongue had wreaked on him and ventured to shift lower, finding that he could make her squirm by tracing her ribs with his tongue, that she cooed if he scattered kisses across her stomach, that gentle hands and sharp nips at the waist of her breeches made her stiffen and catch her breath, waiting. He thought of her knowing smirk as she had slid down him before and grinned wickedly up at her, toying all the while with her buttons, until she shifted against him and protested, "Alexander!"

He dropped a kiss on the curve of her belly; another, and a third. "You _did_ provoke me -- "

She grinned, stretching her arms above her head and shifting her legs to wrap him closely. "Perhaps I ought to have provoked you sooner!"

The challenge in her face was irresistible; he scrambled up to kiss it away and was enveloped; she clung to him with arms and legs, hauling herself bodily from the floor to rub against his length until he groaned and pressed his mouth to hers fiercely, bearing her down beneath him once more to tangle his hands in her hair, turning her head to find the soft skin beneath her ear with his lips, murmuring as he traced over the curves there, "You have witchcraft in your lips, Kate," eliciting a startled snort from her.

"What have you been doing reading _that_ bloody play, Alexander?"

"It has a Katherine, most fair; that suffices."

She laughed, and let her head fall back once again. "Base flattery, rogue, but at least you do not call me a shrew!"

He grinned, taking care she did not see him. "For she had a tongue with a tang..." He was ready for her hand when she made to box his ears and caught it, laughing, pressing it firmly to the floor above her so that he could again trail his mouth over her throat and breasts as she urged him on with gasps and sighs, sucking and biting to make her arch into him, until he was once more at the buttons of her breeches, popping them free. Her hands flexed and the tips of her nails stung his back as he laid his cheek against her and rubbed it over the soft skin, smoothing the flap away until his lips could range freely between the curves of her hips, familiar and altogether strange at once, breathing her in as she shifted impatiently and scored his back again, her squirms causing her breeches to slide down her hips so that he could bury his face in soft curls and press kisses ever lower until he tasted her suddenly and she shook much as he had, and made to curl up to push him away, but he dimly remembered something he had read once, long ago -- Alcibiades? no, Procopius, -- and shook his head, holding her there so he could explore, encouraged as her protests faded into soft, wondering sighs and gasps as he grew bolder and more sure of his ground.

* * *

**Vauxhall Gardens, August, 1799**

> I scarce believe my love to be so pure  
> As I had thought it was...

Three waltzes and she was flushed and laughing; as he led her back to their bench he hoped devoutly that his own state might be attributed to exertion and the warmth of the night. He caught a waiter's eye and secured two more glasses, draining his rapidly and taking another as they sat in the cool breeze, watching the last determined dancers form sets for a more decorous, if not more sedate, country dance, until their glasses were empty and the orchestra had begun to pack their instruments away.

They rose then and began to make their way towards the entrance; there were hackneys to spare at this hour, and it was the work of a moment to attract the attention of a driver. As he handed her in, Edrington saw Kitty stifle a small yawn behind her hand; he settled himself beside her, and she let her head droop comfortably onto his shoulder, looking dreamily out the window and smiling.

"Glad you came?" he said, and she sighed.

"Oh, I am. Just like -- just like old times, though three o'clock used to be friendlier, I swear it did ..." Another yawn and she let her eyes drift shut, still smiling, and turned her face into his collar; he shifted his arm to keep her there, and watched her, enjoying her warm weight against him; she had never so resembled her namesake as when she was drowsing, though he'd never dared draw the comparison aloud for fear of being soundly scratched. He shifted on the padded bench and let his own eyes close, just for a moment...

* * *

**Drury Lane, June 1789**

> As on the finger of a thronéd queen ...

The cloth of her breeches baulked him, rasping his tongue and scraping his cheek, and her attempts to shift her legs to aid him only made matters worse. He sat up with a sigh and applied himself to her boots, a process made no simpler by the way she stretched her arms over her head and watched him, eyes half-closed and lips curved in a smile that made him suddenly aware that his own desire had grown increasingly urgent even as he had been distracted by hers. He tugged again, and grunted in triumph as the second boot came free, and then he was stripping away her breeches and stockings, her hips curving up to help him, and she was bare now and sitting up to reach for his own breeches where they hung loose about his hips; together they got him out of them and as he turned back to her she was in his arms, teeth sinking sharply into his shoulder, and as he smoothed his palms down her back she half-whimpered and he felt her quiver and smiled; stroked his way across her hip until his hand was between their bellies and he could slide it into the dampness between her parted thighs and that made her shake and cling to him as he petted and played and held her close as her breath stuttered and she whimpered against his throat, high and sweet, and shifted urgently against his hand.

Her hands flexed and gripped as he pressed into her carefully and he hadn't known, had never imagined that a woman's body could flutter about his hand like a panicked dove, any more than he had known she could scratch and claw and bite and cry out like this, wild and rough in her urgency. He supposed dimly that he ought to be shocked but he seemed to be beyond shock, beyond anything but holding her tight against him and watching and listening in wonder and oh, she was beautiful, "Beautiful and terrible as an army with banners," he heard himself say into her shoulder and then she was slumped against him, panting, and he was kissing her, suddenly starved and desperate and she clung to him for a moment, then pulled away reluctantly to say "Alexander, wait -- I have to..."

He let her go, half-understanding, and she rose on shaking legs to cross the room and fumble among the drawers of her dressing-table, finding a small jar there and retrieving it with a satisfied sound. He propped himself on one arm, watching, and she smiled over her shoulder. "I ought to have done this before."

"What are you -- oh."

She was finished; she was coming towards him and he paused to appreciate her flushed and tousled state before reaching to draw her back into his arms and kiss her, roughly now, the memory of how she had felt under his hand maddening, entrancing, and he made as if to roll her under him and pulled back, recalling the chill and hardness of the boards, looking over at the small bed in the corner, but she only pressed at his shoulder and followed him down, kneeling over him with her hand skimming his chest, finding his nipples and making him squirm and pull her against him. She stopped him with a look and a twist of her shoulders, and he raised an enquiring eyebrow, but submitted tamely, curious, and found himself sprawled on his back, her hair cloaking them both as she traced his lips with her tongue, teasing him as he tried to catch her mouth, laughing breathlessly at his shivers as her hand dipped lower, guiding him until he was pressed against her, biting his lip, waiting, waiting ... oh, she was merciless, to make him wait so, to make him wait now, when he burned for her so desperately, and she was moving now, taking him inside her, but so slowly, and looking down on him in wide-eyed fascination, her lip caught between her teeth. It made him feel suddenly shy, to be looked at so; he made to turn his face away, but she made a soft, protesting sound and put a gentle hand to his cheek, urging his head back until he met her eyes. She moved suddenly, then, settling onto him, watching as his eyes widened, smiling as she stilled and he groaned and brought his hands to her hips, tugging urgently, swearing when she shook her head again.

"Bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst..." he gasped, and she bent and nipped at his lip in retaliation and he caught her head and kissed her soundly, desperately, until she pulled away wide-eyed in her turn, and he smiled up at her and tried instead, as winningly as he could, "take me, and take me, take a soldier ..." She laughed at that and tweaked his nose, but even as his mouth opened in mock-outrage she relented, softening suddenly against him, letting his hand on her hip guide her, speed her, tucking her face into his shoulder until he twisted beneath her, rolling them over until she was under him, still laughing breathlessly as he grinned in triumph and her hands came up to press into his back and stroke over his arse and urge him on as he thrust into her...

* * *

**Garrick Street, Covent Gardens, August, 1799**

> Love's not so pure, and abstract as they use  
> To say, which have no mistress but their Muse

Edrington started when the hackney driver rapped at the divider; they had stopped, and he had not noted it. Kitty stirred beside him. "My rooms are just along here," she said, and gathered her skirts to step down.

He handed her down and paid the driver absently, turning back to give her his arm as they walked along the deserted street. "Hadn't you better have asked him to wait?" she asked, and he shrugged.

"I'm only at my club; it's no walk at all on a night as mild as this."

It was a better street than she'd lived on before, perhaps -- he'd stepped over more than one huddled form in the old days, taking himself off before her neighbours could wake and see, and evaded their weaving forms the night before, as well -- but he still felt the old anxious twinge at the thought of her making her way here alone from the theatre, through streets with so few lights, on nights such as this one, with not enough moon to illuminate the spaces between. _She ought to have somewhere better._

There was this about the neighbourhood, at least -- it felt entirely natural, here on the dark street, the simplest thing in the world -- _and who's to see or care, in a place like this?_\-- to pull her against his coat and kiss her, for her to sigh and let her lips fall open under his. She was wide-eyed when they broke apart, and he smiled.

"I have wanted to do that all night. No, longer -- I have wanted to do that, I think, since I left you with Mr Hornblower in your dressing room. That, and -- " he caught her mouth once more, more fiercely, and felt the tip of her tongue slide over his lip to catch his own and entice it to explore; her fingers curled sharply into his sides.

She pulled away, biting her lip. "I ought to go up, Alexander."

"I -- suppose you ought. But -- God! Kitty -- " He had kissed her half from nostalgia, meaning it lightly; now he felt he could not bear to leave go of her. "Kitty, can I not -- can I not come up?" She looked up at him then, wide-eyed, and before she could speak, before she could deny him, he stroked his hand down her spine, and she made the small, broken sound that had always maddened him, and oh, it would be so easy, so very easy, but she was shaking her head, pushing against his arms -- he let her go in a rush, and stood breathing deeply, afraid almost to look at her. When she spoke, her voice was steady, though he saw that her hands shook, and held his breath.

"And then what, Alexander? To be the sweetheart of a young soldier and a second son, that was one thing, practically innocent; neither of us had the whip hand of the other. To be the mistress of the Earl of Edrington -- _that_ would be quite another matter, my dear."

"I never called you my _mistress_. I never would, nor treat you as one, nor presume to interfere -- ."

"_You_ never did." She saw the shot go home. "It would be worse, now; every cat in society would have a scratch at me as I went by, once it got about -- and it would get about."

"I could protect you from the loose tongues -- " He stopped at her look.

"How, and not interfere, both? That would be a trick, I think."

He chewed at his lip, thinking frantically. "I -- Damn!"

"Do you see? And more than that -- do you know what a fine line an actress with her living to get walks, if she chooses to give neither encouragement nor offence to her ... admirers, and prefers to get her parts in other ways? And if you offer to protect me from _them_, or from the necessity of earning my way ... "

"That -- no. I know you would not stand for that. But if we were discreet enough --" she was shaking her head again -- _Christ! How can I make her understand, make her see how much I --_

"Oh, I know you can be discreet, Alexander, when you must be, but you can hardly expect to pass _me_ off as your particular friend from school, or from your regiment. Only be seen together once, and it would be all up with us, deny as we might."

He shook his head dumbly; she always could do this to him, damn her, and he had never known how to counter it, only, sometimes, to persuade her to indulge him. Would she not indulge him now, one last time?

Her hands still shook; he took them between his own and pressed his lips to them, deliberately bending his head so that he looked up at her through his eyelashes, shamefully pleased to feel her fingers clench on his before she made to draw them away. He did not release her, though he straightened, until she tugged sharply, frowning. She stepped back, and his heart sank. _Too far, too far..._ but she smiled, gently enough, and touched his cheek, and he bit back a sigh of relief as she went on.

"Even if we could -- Alexander. For you to have other ... friends, I never minded that. But you will marry, you must -- possibly soon, and _that_ I would not stand for, nor should she."

He laid a hand on her forearm, eagerly. "_You_ marry me then, Kitty, why not? It's not as though I never asked you --." She laid a gentle finger on his lips, shaking her head.

"And I said that when you were of age, and had considered -- and that was while your brother still lived. Consider now, Alexander!" He shook his head, frantically, but she went on inexorably: "What sort of Countess do you think I should make you?"

He gave her his most winning smile. "Beautiful. Clever. Adored."

"And happy?" She met his eyes then, gravely. "Shall I leave my own life, leave my friends, leave the stage, to spend the rest of my life playing the Countess of Edrington to boos and hisses wherever I perform the role? Could _you_ be happy, in the life you should lead, married to an actress, and one past her prime at that? No, don't shake your head at me, Alexander! You require an heir, and the odds that I should be able to give you one ..." She turned her face away, gnawing angrily on her lip. "If Julian had lived ..."

He snorted. "There, at least, you and the Polite World find yourselves in complete agreement. If Julian had lived -- he would have been the perfect Earl, and I might have been gone to the devil in whatever way pleased me and been perfectly happy, with the blessing of all. But Julian died, damn him, and here we are. If the scandalous Earl insists on a scandalous wife -- Kitty, it would be a seven-day wonder, that's all."

She shook her head, closing her eyes against his entreaties. "You know that's not true, Alexander; that is for stories."

"We are the makers of manners, Kate," he tried, and at her patient look -- "Damn them all!" But she had won, and she knew it; she only waited, silent, until his shoulders slumped and he sighed and let her go. "Then you ought to go up. And you ought to go now, before -- " _Before I kiss you again, and scatter my little resolve to the devil._

Kitty met his eyes fully then. "Yes." But she made no move to go, and he did not step back to let her by, not yet, not when hope was gone and he would not see her again and she seemed infinitely beautiful to him now that he could not have her, _but Dear God, her eyes ... I ought to make her go up, I ought to have made her go before I ever put that shadow in them ..._

"I -- " He could scarcely see her, anyway; her face blurred and ran away, like a gold coin dropped into water. "Kitty -- Lady. I -- I am sorry." She nodded, and as she did she _smiled_ at him, for him, forgiving him, and he tried to smile in return and could not, could only stand and stare and wait for her to walk away and clench his hands into fists at his side, that he might be less tempted to reach for her.

Her cheeks were wet. She wiped at her face roughly with her sleeve; _like a schoolboy_, he thought irrelevantly. "Alexander, I have to -- you cannot -- you cannot just reach out your hand and, and have everything you -- oh _damn_ you, _must_ you look at me so?"

"I -- " He shut his eyes and turned his face away.

"Oh, _bloody Hell!_" -- and she was in his arms, and he was kissing the tears from her cheeks, and if he was a damned fool, well, it would be neither the first time nor, he thought, the last.

* * *

**December 1799**

> Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore  
> My love was infinite ...

Alexander,

My Dear, I think it best if I go away; we have begun to make each other unhappy, and I cannot bear that there should be any harsh words or resentment between us -- still less can I bear that you should look and speak as you did when last we met. As you love me, Alexander, never again talk to me of gratitude for scraps. It makes me feel a wretch, and perhaps I am one, but we knew when we began this the limits of what we might hope for, and no amount of affection or regard on my part -- or yours -- can change any thing. I am no more fit to live a life of gratitude, dependance, and compromise under your protection than I am to be your wife, and you have too much pride to be anything but unhappy as long as I will not allow you either to indulge me or to dictate how I shall go on.

There the matter rests, and we only prolong our pain by trying to pretend otherwise. I cannot endure another such scene as our last, and I love you too well to see you suffering as you have been. I have a part on the Continent; when you receive this I shall have gone already to take it up and shall not return until sometime in spring at the earliest. You will say -- or at least think -- that it is cowardly in me not to have told you myself, but there is nothing more certain than that if I saw you again I would find myself relenting again, to the increase of both our eventual pain. Perhaps someday we shall be able to find some way to be in one another's presence without it giving us such pain. I hope so, with all my heart.

K.

* * *

**Notes:**

Section heading quotes are from [ Shakespeare](http://www.william-shakespeare.info/william-shakespeare-sonnet-96.htm) (1789 sections) and from [ Donne](http://www.online-literature.com/donne/359/) (1799 sections).

The painting Edrington and Kitty are so struck by was real -- Karl Phillipe Moritz visited Vauxhall Gardens in 1782, and describes such a painting [ here](http://etext.library.adelaide.edu.au/m/moritz_k/england/chapter4.html). More research suggests that Moritz is probably referring to [ Hayman's The Surrender of Montreal to General Amherst' ](http://www.findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m1373/is_n6_v45/ai_17011045/pg_2). Sadly, it has not survived.


End file.
